


Arrivals and Departures

by katiemariie



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Happy Ending, Interspecies Romance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 19:29:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11561817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiemariie/pseuds/katiemariie
Summary: Weyoun 6 lives. Odo still feels guilty. Neither of them know how to have a real relationship--let alone one this complicated.





	1. En Route

Odo spends half the return trip to Deep Space Nine roiling in guilt, his insides bubbling with self-hatred, regret, and fear, and trying desperately to keep his eyes from Weyoun’s body. He could have moved it to the sleeping quarters, Odo knows, but that would have involved holding Weyoun in his arms once again. An act that would force Odo to more viscerally engage with the question gnawing at him: if he is a god worth dying for, why can’t he bring Weyoun back? Based on Odo’s study of the divine across various cultures, as a god, he should, at the very least, be able to return the spark of life with a touch of his finger.

It’s strange. Odo has never considered himself a god. Not even when the previous Weyoun fawned over him on the Promenade or the Founder instructed him in their imperious ways. He certainly has no god-like powers to speak of. As a Changeling, the only good he can do is for himself.

And yet the burden of Weyoun’s death hangs on Odo with the kind of weight only a god could shoulder.

Maybe it’s not turning water into blood but rather the blood on one’s hands that makes a god. The responsibility for so many lives. And his people certainly are responsible for the Vorta. They may not have created the species from whole cloth, but, if Weyoun was right, they made the Vorta who they are today: servile, almost dependent, and with senses that can only register beauty in the divine.

People who would die for people like Odo.

People who have.

Does it matter that Odo isn’t a proper Founder? At once an orphan and the prodigal son? It didn’t matter to Weyoun. In fact, Weyoun came to him because of his estrangement from the Great Link.

By no fault of his own, Odo has ascended to godhood. And whether he wants this or not, he is responsible for those under his, for lack of a better word, dominion.

And that includes the man lying dead just behind him.

He should be able to look at Weyoun, but he can’t. Not until he’s forced to.

That moment comes sooner than expected.

-

Weyoun gasps. He shouldn’t need to. If he’s alive to gasp, that means he must have maintained an adequate supply of oxygen to his brain and essential organs. And yet coming to consciousness, he feels compelled to suck in as much air as possible. His lungs ache from disuse (how long was he out? He’s never tested his concoction at this dose), but there’s some pleasure in filling them.

Oh, he does enjoy that. Like drinking water after a period of thirst. Quite good. The consequences of oxygen deprivation being much more dire and less controllable than dehydration, Weyoun does not think he will try to induce this state at will as he does with thirst. Yet he will do his very best to remember it.

Pleasures, when so newly hatched and so lacking in aesthetic sense, are hard to come by. One must take them for oneself occasionally.

The rush of blood back to his extremities produces a tingling sensation almost like being stabbed by a million tiny knives that while interesting is not exactly pleasant. Weyoun decides he does not like it, and nearly loses himself in pride over making such a determination when a face flutters into view.

Theoretically, that could be any Founder staring down at him—smooth features combined with not just a hint of face-blindness makes visual recognition trying—but the waves of ecstasy rolling over Weyoun’s already sensitive body confirms it.

“Odo,” he says softly, his voice scratchy in a way that he neither likes or dislikes but it’s new and therefore interesting. He will think about this later. If there is later.

“You’re alive,” Odo says. 

Weyoun’s sleepy limbs draw inward, covering his vulnerable torso. To hide from a Founder’s judgment in any way is heresy, but old prey instincts die hard.

“Yes,” he says. “Please forgive me.”

“Forgive you? For what?”

“I deceived you. I made you believe that I had died. That I had given my life for yours.” Fighting instinct and instituting ritual, Weyoun crawls to his knees. “But I would. I would die for you a million times if you asked.”

“But I didn’t ask,” Odo says sharply.

“No, and you’ll never have to. I am here for you, Odo. Whatever I can do to protect you, to serve you, I will.”

Odo snorts. “But you didn’t. Not today.”

Weyoun pulls at the cuffs of his shirt. “Today, I didn’t deem it necessary. If I had died, who would help you end the war? Who would serve at your side? Who would protect you?”

“My colleagues on DS9 for one.”

“Yes, but none of them can serve you like a Vorta can. I am, if you will forgive my pridefulness, an invaluable asset. And I do hope you’ll include that in your report. You’ll put that in your report, won’t you?”

Odo rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’ll put that in my report.”

Weyoun smiles widely. “You see? Then today has turned out well for everyone. Weyoun 7 and Damar believe I’m dead—which will make them very happy. You have retained your Vorta. And I have escaped death and the Dominion and am now free to serve you. And eat pizza.” Weyoun glances around the runabout. “Is there still pizza? I am very hungry.”

-

Plied with pepperoni, Weyoun drops much of his fawning religiosity and speaks freely. At least, as freely as someone born and raised to serve an authoritarian empire can on such short notice.

“How did you do it?” Odo asks.

Clearly eager to reveal his secrets, Weyoun chews more quickly. Odo must admit he takes some pleasure in watching him eat, witnessing undeniable proof of his continued, heterotrophic existence and absolving Odo’s guilt in his feigned death.

Only a few hours ago, he felt like a god. And now he’s seeking absolution from the very mortal whose life he felt responsible for.

Weyoun swallows. “I realized fairly soon after my placement that I would not remain with the Dominion for long. My feelings regarding the war would soon be discovered; I would either be terminated or forced to flee.”

“And you decided to flee,” Odo says.

“Yes, but I knew if I fled, I would need to align myself with another interstellar power for protection—ideally, you.” He smiles. “Thankfully, you.”

“You’re telling me that if I had left you on that moon, you would have approached someone else?”

“After an extended bout of depression, yes.”

Odo harrumphs. He doesn’t know why this revelation slights him, but it does.

Weyoun leans toward him, holding his palms up, chopsticks still stuck between his fingers. “But in my heart I would have been serving you.”

“How comforting,” Odo drawls.

Weyoun bows his head. “I am glad.”

“Would you stop genuflecting and get back to your story?”

“As you wish.” Weyoun bobs his head and looks back to his pizza. “Regardless of who I served, I knew I would essentially be submitting myself to capture. As Vorta, before we are even hatched, we are instructed to self-terminate upon capture. As strong as my determination may be to help you, I feared that given the situation—even though my actions would be voluntary—there are certain reflexes—”

Odo cuts in, “You were afraid your training might take over.”

Weyoun beams at this interjection—unlike any other time Odo has interrupted someone and he does so regularly.

“Exactly,” Weyoun says. “I realized if I wanted to survive and be of any use to you, I needed to disable my termination device. Of course, I couldn’t request this from a Vorta technician or seek help from outside the Dominion. Like most Vorta, I have an overwhelming fear of mirrors, so operating on myself was entirely out of the question.”

“Obviously.”

“So I began to quietly experiment with various chemical mixtures to determine which combination would render the termination device inoperable.”

“That must have taken some doing.”

“Oh, yes, the process was quite painful.”

Odo nods. “You must have done dozens of trials.”

“More than I can remember.” Weyoun gazes out the viewscreen, his expression going far away for a moment. “Of course, my memory hasn’t been the same since I tested the chlorotoxin. Or was it conotoxin?”

Odo gapes, a sudden anger rising in him. “You experimented on yourself?”

Weyoun looks back at him. “Of course, the only termination device I had access to is my own.”

“You could have killed yourself.”

“Odo, your concern touches me more than I could ever describe, but I assure you the risk of death was minimal. The Founders blessed the Vorta with a near total immunity to toxins. It was this immunity that allowed me to dislodge the implant. By dosing myself with a toxic compound with a chemical makeup similar to the termination device, I was able to trick my body into disposing of the device along with the compound. The most difficult part was discovering the correct toxin.”

This sounds frighteningly like something Dr. Bashir would try.

“How could you even know that it worked?” Odo asks.

“I couldn’t know for sure. I was not designed for scientific research. However, I assumed that the sudden, stabbing pain at the base of my skull followed by a tiny metal object migrating along my spinal column meant I had made progress.”

Weyoun leans forward in his seat, a hand rubbing small circles on the middle of his back. 

“It’s still in you?” Odo asks.

Weyoun nods. “I have to coax it away from my vertebrae a few times a day or my lower extremities begin to tingle.”

“When we get back to the station, you’re getting that removed.”

Weyoun’s eyes take on a faint glow. “Do you think Dr. Bashir will let me keep it afterwards?”

“Why not? I’ll have him put it on a chain, and you can wear it around your neck.”

Weyoun claps his hands, letting out a faintly rodential squeal of excitement, which he quickly muffles with his hand. The raw, unironic enthusiasm makes it both harder and easier to keep from Weyoun the truth: as soon as they arrive on the station (and perhaps even sooner), everything he has, everything he knows, everything he _is_ will be confiscated, inspected, and perhaps one day returned by Starfleet Intelligence. This isn’t to say that defectors don’t have rights—they do… eventually—but Weyoun won’t be able to exercise them until after his debriefing. If then.

Too tired and frankly charmed to burst Weyoun’s bubble, Odo directs the conversation away from post-Dominion life and back to his recent escape. A morbid, but somehow cheerier topic.

“When you ‘died’ earlier,” Odo begins, “I’m guessing that you took some kind of drug that lowered your vital signs? No doubt some cocktail you discovered while experimenting on yourself.”

Weyoun’s hand uncovers his mouth. “Your powers of detection continue to amaze.”

“Where did you stash it? I patted you down very thoroughly—”

“An experience I will treasure eternally.”

“—and I didn’t find any vials or pills.”

“I hid the capsule inside my body,” Weyoun says, only furthering Odo’s conviction that more invasive cavity searches are entirely necessary for station security; he’ll be writing both Starfleet and the Magistrate when he returns home.

Professional curiosity impels him to ask, “Where?” He didn’t see Weyoun remove the capsule from anywhere, and he’s familiarized himself with all the common (and not-so-common) tricks criminals have for concealing and removing contraband.

Weyoun taps his right cheek. 

“But I looked in your mouth.” That much Starfleet and the Bajoran government will allow.

“Vorta retain vestigial cheek pouches. They aren’t very big, but they’re large enough to hide one or two small items.”

“Like a poison capsule.”

Weyoun nods. “Or a pepperoni.”

-

Although he remains utterly unqualified to assess the quality of any noise or lack thereof outside of a diplomatic engagement, Weyoun feels they’ve entered into a companionable silence after several hours. Merely existing in Odo’s presence contents (if not, thrills) Weyoun, but he is beginning to notice signs of unease in Odo’s bearing. He shifts in his seat as if feeling a bodily discomfort that his kind are so far beyond. He crosses his arms over his chest, hiding his hands from view—a monumental display of disrespect amongst Vorta. And then Odo turns his chair so Weyoun can no longer take in his presence visually.

“Odo,” Weyoun says softly, “have I done something to displease you?”

“No,” Odo says with a slight burble. 

“Are you certain?”

“I’m just tired.”

“Oh.” Weyoun looks to the chronometer. “Has it been sixteen hours already? Time with you seems to rush by.”

“Please be quiet. I need to concentrate on keeping my form.”

“Why? Say the word and I will retire to the sleeping quarters so you may regenerate in peace.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“You did before. Do you no longer trust me?” His earlier deceit may have struck a fatal blow to their budding bond.

“You poisoned yourself into a coma. Until you’re assessed by a doctor, I can’t leave you unsupervised.”

“But you need to regenerate,” Weyoun protests.

“I know. But I can’t. Not in front of someone I just met.”

“I understand.” Having been in Odo’s service for only a few days, seeing him in his true form would either be an unprecedented spiritual blessing tantamount to a miracle… or deeply improper. “I’m sorry that my actions today have put you in such an unpleasant position. I never meant to harm you.”

“You did what you had to do.”

Weyoun eyes the chopsticks still laying on the conn, picturing doing what he has to do now. He lacks a sense of aesthetics and his eyesight is poor. He doubts two short pokes would make much of a difference to his life in the long run. He picks up the chopsticks, wiping the remaining oil onto his sleeves.

“Odo,” Weyoun asks, “would you feel comfortable regenerating in my presence if I were blind?”

Holding a chopstick in each fist, he raises the smaller ends to eye level, awaiting only Odo’s command.

“I suppose not being seen would make it easier,” Odo gurgles.

Weyoun’s hands tremble. “Good.” He takes a deep breath and jabs the chopsticks toward his pupils, dropping them only at the last second.

For the second time today, Weyoun has thought of himself, his life, his body before Odo. Just as when he chose to ingest one capsule rather than the full (tested but unbearably painful) dose in his cheek, Weyoun acted on the realization that there is life beyond the Founders—a Founder—Odo—worth exploring even if he must do so alone.

No longer bound to full obedience out of a fear of abandonment, less radical solutions show themselves.

Weyoun tears a strip of fabric from his shirt with an audible rip and ties it around his head, covering his eyes completely.

“You know, there are at least three eyepatches in the emergency medical kit,” Odo says. “You didn’t need to rip your shirt.”

“My shirt means nothing in comparison to your comfort.”

However true that is, Weyoun is beginning to entertain the idea that he means something—no matter how small—compared to Odo.

-

Odo pools in the seat of his chair until Weyoun stops talking—he blathers on for about an hour even though Odo cannot respond—and begins breathing the slow, deep breaths of a sleeping solid.

Stretching like a snail moving from one flower to another, Odo oozes onto the conn. He spreads himself evenly over its surface, poised to press any and every button should an emergency arise. Keeping his diffuse sensory tissue trained on Weyoun, Odo allows himself to drift off into a state of semi-consciousness.

Although he will think otherwise for quite some time, no matter how alert he is, he can’t stop what’s coming next.

-

The high whine of a ship being intercepted out of warp jerks Weyoun awake. With no thought other than his and Odo’s safety (surprisingly, in that order), he rips off his blindfold. Eyes locking on Odo’s true form—he’s never seen a Founder like this before—he looks glorious—Weyoun freezes in place. 

Until he hears the click of another ship docking and he knows they’re being boarded.

The Dominion knows he’s alive and have sent Jem’Hadar foot soldiers to finish him off.

But Odo wouldn’t have let that happen, would he? He said this wouldn’t happen. He said the message to Starfleet was encrypted, completely secure, and in a code. And yet.

Footfalls nearing the bay door, Weyoun turns his back to Odo.

“Stay behind me.” The first order he’s ever given a Founder.

As the door opens, a weight settles on Weyoun’s shoulder before spreading evenly across his entire body. Through a translucent film, Weyoun watches a Klingon—just like in his nightmare—board the runabout.

The Klingon tilts his head to the side. “Constable?”

Moved by some invisible, external force, Weyoun’s head bobs up and down.

The Klingon calls over his shoulder, “Lower weapons.” He holsters his own phaser.

The pressure enveloping Weyoun fades, collecting into a puddle on the floor before gliding under the conn and out of sight.

Looking anywhere but at Odo, the Klingon says, “When you did not return our audio transmission, I thought you may have been injured or overtaken. I apologize for the intrusion.”

Weyoun recognizes the Klingon now, putting a voice to a name to a face. 

He bows his head slightly. “Commander Worf, how may I be of service?”

“Come with me,” Worf says gruffly.

“Where? If I may ask.”

“I have been ordered to escort you to Earth.”

“Earth?” Weyoun asks. “Odo could bring me to Earth.”

Worf clenches his jaw. “Odo does not have command of the Defiant.”

“Surely the runabout could—”

“The runabout is slow and poorly defended. And the moment it deviates from its course to Deep Space Nine, the Dominion will send out the Jem’Hadar. If you want to live long enough to be useful, you will board the Defiant now.”

“What about Odo?”

“Odo will resume his course to the station.”

“I cannot leave his side. I’ve sworn myself—”

“Should you fail to cooperate, Starfleet Intelligence has authorized the use of force.”

Weyoun straightens his posture, which, despite his best intentions, does not have him towering over or even eye-to-eye with the Commander. “Starfleet needs me alive.”

Worf takes half a step forward. “Yes, and as the Dominion taught me at Internment Camp 371, a man can be beaten rather badly without dying.”

And, for the third time that day, Weyoun chooses not being in physical agony over fully honoring his commitment to a being he considers his god.

“Lead the way, commander.”


	2. In Place

Kira sidles up next to him at the window as noiselessly as an Edosian ameba. An old habit from her youth in the Resistance. It must be harder to remain so silent on the feet of a grown woman rather than those of a young girl.

A skill Odo once found hopelessly endearing but now numbers amongst the many things that remind him of his failed attempt to woo Kira and her gentle but still humiliating refusal.

All these little reminders make honoring his promise to remain friends more difficult, but her continuing presence in his life makes this—and everything else—easier to bear.

“You’re worried,” she says.

Still gazing out the window, Odo nods. “No matter what horrible things they’ve done—that they’ll continue to do—they’re still my people. The thought of them all dying…”

“I know.” And of course she does. Nothing more needs to be said. “But I wasn’t talking about your people.”

“I don’t have many people in my life. Who else would I worry for?” He adds, “Besides the entirety of the Alpha Quadrant.”

Kira turns and leans her back against the window. If she were anyone else, he would shoo her away, citing not only his disdain for slouching but also the care that goes into keep the Promenade windows smudgeless. She smiles mildly. “You’re not staring out at the entire Alpha Quadrant. You’re looking towards Earth. And I can only think of one person you’d want to watch out for on Earth.”

The random tapestry of lights resolves into a familiar starscape, frightening Odo with how little he can know himself when Kira knows him so well.

He sighs. “For some reason, I can’t help thinking that whatever happens to him, I’m responsible.”

“He was your catch. If I handed someone over to another government, I’d feel responsible for their welfare, too.”

“I’ve delivered prisoners and informants to Starfleet before. But this is different. When I look towards Earth, I feel so certain that if he’s hurt, it’s because I didn’t protect him. If he’s scared, it’s because I’m not comforting him. If he’s lonely, it’s because I’m not with him.”

“Odo, you can’t hold yourself responsible for someone else’s feelings. You’re not a—”

“A god?” Odo snorts. “To him, I am.”

“And that matters to you? What he thinks?”

“Of course.”

Kira crosses her arms over her chest. “After nearly a decade of friendship, you finally admit it. You actually care what other people think about you.”

Odo snears—a toothless gesture. “Before you get too full of yourself, remember I’m not being self-conscious. I care—I feel responsible—because my people programmed the Vorta into worshipping us. We made them subservient, almost dependent on us. Now that he’s defected, whatever duties my people performed for Vorta fall to me. At least until he gets it into his head that I’m not a god.”

“I don’t want to speak too harshly about your people,” Kira starts, “especially now knowing what we do about their health. But in all your interactions with the Dominion, have you ever seen a Founder protect a Vorta? Or offer comfort? Or even spend time with them voluntarily?”

“No,” Odo says. “But shouldn’t a god care for the people who worship them?”

“In my mind, yes. Ideally. But you’re not an ideal god.”

“I’m not a god at all.”

“Right. And if you were a god, you would be a Founder. So, if you care for him, it’s not because you’re a god or a Changeling. It’s because you’re a person. And sometimes people feel powerful things for other people.”

“That’s wonderful, Colonel,” Odo drawls. “I thought I was simply having delusions of grandeur, but apparently I have feelings. They can treat delusions of grandeur, but feelings?”

“You’re allowed to have feelings.”

“That’s the problem.”

-

From the moment he steps onto the station, Weyoun feels lighter, as if sharing everything he knows about the Dominion (and everything he knows in general) with Starfleet Intelligence has unburdened him. As if he has cast aside his former life to make room for the new.

Or it could be the Defiant’s faulty graviton stabilizer making him feel heavier by comparison.

Regardless, he emerges from the Defiant a different person than when he boarded. 

For one, he knows a good deal more about Klingon art than he ever thought he could. Commander Worf may have appeared surly and taciturn when they first met, but once questioned about Klingon aesthetics, he expounded upon the subject for hours.

Secondarily, Weyoun leaves the Defiant free from any work or religious responsibilities, at liberty to choose how and where he will live and what he will do.

Also, significant: despite his debriefing never straying into the bounds of torture, the overall experience has left Weyoun feeling disillusioned, bitter, and alienated from not one, but two major galactic powers. 

In light of these changes, Weyoun retires immediately to his new quarters, submerges himself in his custom tank, and plays Klingon opera as loud as his waterproof speakers will allow. (Commander Worf assures him that the latter will help with the disillusionment.)

He’s thankful—but thanks no one, because there is no one to thank—that he does not run into Odo in the corridor.

-

After four failed visits to Weyoun’s quarters—Odo knows he’s in there, he can hear music playing, but he supposes Weyoun cannot hear the chime—Odo plans to “bump into” Weyoun in the halls after his weekly deprogramming appointment with Dax.

He realizes this may constitute stalking in some jurisdictions, but on the whole it seems less creepy than simply using his security override to enter Weyoun’s quarters. That, Odo assumes, has to count for something.

Ezri’s office door swishes open as she and Weyoun stand at the threshold, forcing Odo to overhear the end of their conversation.

“—haven’t joined any new cults,” Ezri says, “which is just as important.”

“Thank you, counselor,” Weyoun says.

“I’ll see you next week.”

Once the door closes behind her, Odo steps into Weyoun’s (comparatively limited) field of vision, earning a small jump from the Vorta.

“I’m sorry,” Odo says. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Clutching a hand to his chest and eyes locked on the floor, Weyoun says slowly, “If one does not wish to startle a Vorta, then one should approach the Vorta head on or at an oblique angle. Vorta have very poor peripheral vision and most objects approaching from the right or left typically register as appearing suddenly from nowhere.”

“I hadn’t realized it was so jarring.”

“Well, most Vorta hide their surprise better than I do.”

For lack of anything else to do, Odo joins Weyoun in looking at the floor, focusing his centralized sensory tissue downward.

“I haven’t seen you around the station,” Odo says. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

“Am I not allowed to?” Weyoun asks, sending through Odo a wave of affection equally remarkable and impossibly nauseating.

Fighting the urge to somehow vomit up part of himself, Odo says, “No. As far as I’m concerned, you can do whatever you like as long as you’re not breaking the law.”

“In that case,” Weyoun says, “I think it would be better for both of us if I continued avoiding you.”

“Why? I thought you wanted to…” Serve me? Odo decides that’s not right, but can’t quite figure out a suitable replacement that captures the fullness of Weyoun’s ambition. “To work together?”

“I did, but I’m afraid I no longer have anything to offer. Whatever tactical advantage I offer is now on file with Starfleet Intelligence. I’m sure your colleagues can get you access.”

“I’d rather hear it directly from the source.”

Weyoun looks up, drawing Odo’s gaze upward along with him. “But not enough to conduct my debriefing yourself.”

Odo wants to, but doesn’t, lay a hand on Weyoun’s elbow. “I’m sorry if I made you believe differently, but Starfleet would never allow me to debrief you. After all these years, they still don’t trust me. In fact, I think they trust me less.”

“You didn’t even ask.”

“Because I knew the answer would be no.”

“And I suppose it would be too humiliating for a Founder to hear no. To have a solid tell you what you can and can’t do to a Vorta.”

“I’m not a Founder,” Odo snaps.

“No, you’re not. A Founder would never do what you did.”

“No, they wouldn’t. Because unlike me Founders actually have the power to reckon with Starfleet, to protect—”

“Is that why you did it? Did you need to feel powerful? To exact total control over your Vorta, your Dominion?”

“If I’m remembering correctly,” Odo says, volume rising, “you were the one who wanted to create a new Dominion for me.”

“Yes, but out of planets and stars, not my body.”

Odo takes a cautious step back. “What are you accusing me of?”

“You used me. You manhandled me. You talked through me like I was a little puppet.” Weyoun forms a yapping mouth with his right hand as if manipulating an invisible sock puppet—a discordantly adorable gesture to accompany such a damning accusation. “I have been a mouthpiece for the Dominion my entire life, but no Founder ever took control of my body directly.”

“I only did that to keep you from getting shot,” Odo protests. “Maybe I went too far in making you nod your head for me, but I just wanted to protect you. That’s all I’ve wanted since we met. You have to believe me when I say—”

“I don’t have to believe anything,” Weyoun hisses. “Not anymore.”

“Fine, but if you ever choose to believe anything, I hope you know that all I want for you is a good, safe life free from the people who’ve controlled you. Even if, I suppose, that means you need to be free from me.”

“Why?” Weyoun asks quietly.

“Why what?”

“Why would you want good things for me? No one wants good things for me. I’m not certain I want good things for me. I doubt I deserve them. So why should you? If you don’t intend to keep me as your Vorta, then why would my condition even matter to you? How well I live will provide you with no more prestige than the welfare of anyone else aboard this station. So why even care?”

Odo wavers, unsure of how to answer. He’s professed his affections to other beings before, but in words Weyoun wouldn’t understand and with results that were less than encouraging. After his unsuccessful declaration to Kira, Odo isn’t exactly keen to reprise his performance, but he supposes there are certain things in life none of us can avoid.

Guided by an unnameable instinct, Odo presses his right palm to Weyoun’s chest, feeling the flow of something immaterial between their bodies, and knowing absolutely that if he’s rejected today, it won’t be due to any misunderstanding.

“Oh,” Weyoun says, staring down at his chest. “I see.” He nods.

Odo pulls his hand back, leaving a glowing mark on Weyoun that fades within a few seconds. Holding his hands behind his back, Odo says, “Now you know.”

The corners of Weyoun’s mouth quirk upward, his eyes not straying from the place where Odo connected with him. “Yes. I think I do.”

A loud but muffled cough comes from behind the door to Ezri’s office. Still inside, Ezri calls to them: “Um, guys, I don’t want to interrupt, but, uh, my office doesn’t have an adjoining bathroom, so…”

“Understood, counselor,” Odo replies in his ‘Quark, I know you’re in there; this will be easier for everyone if you just open the door’ voice. “We’ll be out of your way shortly.”

An audible sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

Eager to prolong whatever moment he and Weyoun are having, Odo consults the library of romance novels he consumed while a Solid.

“May I escort you home?” he asks.

Weyoun looks up through his eyelashes. “I would be delighted.”

-

They stand at the threshold, Odo’s hands behind his back, Weyoun wanting them all over his body.

After a long silence, they both begin to speak.

“May I—”

“Would you like—”

“Sorry,” Odo says. “Please go ahead.”

Weyoun tries again. “Would you like to come inside?” 

Were they both true believers, that question would near blasphemy. Of course, no modern Founder would like to visit the home of a Vorta. What could a Vorta possibly have to offer there? And if a Founder needed for some reason to enter a Vorta’s quarters, they would never require permission. To even ask such a thing questions the Founders’ immutable rights to the lives and living spaces of their subjects. Before the war, Vorta were executed for less. At least, according to rumor.

Fortunately, as a fellow apostate, Odo feels no offense, and simply smiles.

“Yes,” he says, “I would. Thank you.”

They step inside, sending a flood of shame through Weyoun about the way he lives: both the state of his quarters and the state of his life now. No one else has visited before; Commander Worf will only exchange cast recordings in a public space so as to discourage undue familiarity. As a result, Weyoun is woefully unprepared for company.

Odo gravitates to the corner Weyoun considers his workshop, but has suddenly become a gallery.

“I would offer you a seat,” Weyoun says, “but I’m afraid it’s not finished yet.”

Odo tilts his head, appraising the towering monstrosity before him. “You made this yourself?”

“Starfleet provided the base materials, but I have been assembling them.”

“For any particular purpose?”

“I live alone, and the room came with more furniture than any one person could use simultaneously, so…”

“You decided to stick all of it together?”

Weyoun approaches, nodding. “Yes. I believe that by putting the room’s furnishings together, I can concentrate or add up their respective aesthetic and practical values into one superior piece that I could enjoy all at once.”

“So, instead of having five average chairs, you would have one—”

“Mega-Chair,” Weyoun whispers reverentially, “with an adjoining Mega-Table.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Progress is slow. I work on it almost daily, but I lack my predecessor’s artistic vision. So rare amongst Vorta, almost heretical.”

“I can see where you get it from,” Odo says, the words clearly meant kindly.

Weyoun feels Odo’s gaze on him as he stares at his work in progress.

“I hope by completing this, by improving myself this way, that I can honor his memory,” Weyoun says. “At least, the parts worth honoring.”

“Do you remember him? I mean, were his memories passed down to you? Genetically?”

“No, although I don’t doubt that Dominion science could do such a thing.”

“Then how were you able to fill his post? Were you given lessons of some kind?”

Weyoun nods. “While I was still a vatling, I received full instruction on my role within the Dominion. Of course, more specific lessons didn’t begin until the Founders decided I was to be a Weyoun.”

“You weren’t always a Weyoun?”

“Oh, no. When Weyoun 5 was activated, the Founders chose me from the pool of mature generics and gave me the Weyoun-class genetic modifications. When my predecessor perished, I was ready to hatch and immediately replace him.”

“That seems needlessly complicated. You were created artificially. Why not perform the genetic modifications at conception?”

“The demand for new clones is highly unpredictable, and unlike the Jem’Hadar, Vorta take years to reach full maturity. If the Dominion runs through their stock of a given clone, they do not have the time to wait for a new clone to go from infant to adult. Of course, the Dominion could always warehouse more clones, but that would be an entirely inefficient use of resources. Maintaining a stock of generics enables greater flexibility in identity assignment while using fewer resources.”

Odo shakes his head in disbelief. “Just when I think I’ve gotten to the bottom of my people’s cruelty…” he trails off.

“I wouldn’t call it cruelty,” Weyoun says. “At times, my youth was quite happy.”

Odo stares at him sharply. “They stocked you in a warehouse like bottles of yamok sauce.”

“True, but I had a very nice tank.”

“Tank?”

“Yes. It was near the front door, so I could watch the scientists coming and going. Every shift began and ended with someone checking on my tank’s settings. The temperature of my pseudoamniotic fluid was so wonderfully consistent.” Weyoun looks toward his bedroom wistfully. “I’ve tried to replicate the experience here, but I suppose no tank is ever as good as one’s childhood tank.”

Odo stares at him blankly. “You have a tank here?”

“Oh, yes. Fortunately, I’m newly hatched enough that my gills—” He gestures to the webbing around his ears. “—haven’t stopped functioning due to disuse. Breathing was a little difficult at first but it’s gotten easier each night.”

“You sleep in there?”

“I do, and quite well. It does wonders for my nightmares. Counselor Dax says the tank helps me return emotionally to a simpler time where I wasn’t complicit in a needless war and the enslavement of two species, including my own.” He pauses. “You must find this incredibly strange.”

“I used to regenerate in a bucket; being raised in a lab does strange things to people.”

“Sometimes I forget because you’re so…” Breathing shakingly, Weyoun looks Odo up and down. “...magnificent, but you came to maturity in circumstances any Vorta would recognize.”

“I know what it’s like for someone to control me. To control my body. To try to make it do things. Instead of learning from that experience, I thought my pain made me above doing something like that to anyone else. Clearly, I was wrong.” He lays a hand on Weyoun’s shoulders. There’s none of the near-electric intensity of his earlier touch, but it comforts. “I was wrong,” he repeats, layering the words with new meaning. “And I’m sorry.”

Weyoun supposes this apology should provide solace, reassure him of Odo’s regard, his humility, his willingness to move beyond the parts they’ve laid out for themselves. But it only serves to confuse.

“If it was wrong, why would you do it to me?” Weyoun asks quietly.

“Because at the time, I thought I was doing what was right. I was so caught up in my own limitations that put us in that situation, thinking about how if I didn’t need to regenerate, I could’ve answered Mr. Worf’s audio transmission, I could’ve stopped you from getting a phaser in your face, I could’ve explained what was happening. I got so stuck on what I couldn’t do that even what I could do felt completely inadequate. It wasn’t enough to wrap myself around you, guarding you from phaser fire like a living shield. What a bravura display of masculinity that was. No, I had to manipulate your body, make you nod, do a little trick for our captors. Of course. Because no matter what changes, no matter how much I think I’ve grown, I am still that tiny, unidentified sample, a nothing who will do anything to prove that he’s something.”

Odo steps away, letting his hand fall from Weyoun’s shoulder.

“And this time,” he continues, “I dragged you into it. I treated you just as badly as I treat myself. And for that I am truly sorry.”

Weyoun swallows. “No one’s ever…” He stops that train of thought, knowing it to be false. People apologize all the time. Even to him. His subordinates would grovel for forgiveness. On Earth, something as small as walking too near someone—not even touching them, let alone hurting them—was grounds for a “sorry, excuse me.” But this is the first time someone has apologized for actually hurting him. This is the first genuine apology that Weyoun has solicited and received.

Neither of his usual responses—“Your contrition has been noted” and “That’s fine”—seem appropriate. 

So, following Odo’s earlier example, Weyoun places a hand on Odo’s chest.

“I don’t like what you did,” he says, “but I’m pleased that you apologized. I hope that in the future things will be different.”

“They will be. I promise that,” Odo says.

“Good.”

Odo’s chest gives way under Weyoun’s palm, drawing him in as a light shines out, enveloping him up to the wrist. Both stare at the meeting of their bodies, equally baffled.

“Does this…” Weyoun tries again. “Is this always what happens?”

“This has never happened to me.” Odo tries again. “I’ve done things before. Once. But it was… It wasn’t so invasive. Not that you’re invading me. I think I’m being more open now.”

“Good. I think that’s good.”

“What do we do now?” Odo asks.

“I don’t know. Contact between our two species has never been so… literal. Something like this has never happened.”

“Do you want it to?”

“Very badly. Do you?”

Odo nods. “I think my atoms may scatter if I don’t. I’m just not sure how we’re supposed to—”

“I think if we keep touching each other…” Weyoun wraps his free arm around Odo’s shoulders, drawing him nearer. “...eventually…” His mouth becomes momentarily preoccupied with Odo’s. “...we’ll figure something out.”


	3. Epilogue: Toward Home

Weyoun looks up from the pile of PADDs heaped on the conn, headache-reducing spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, a look of absolute terror on his face. “They’re going to kill me.”

Odo sighs, not bothering to look away from the Rubicon’s nav system. “They’re not going to kill you.”

“Thousands of Vorta and Jem’Hadar still licking their wounds from the Dominion’s surrender, unsupervised by the Founders for the very first time, and me, the most notorious traitor in the Gamma Quadrant’s history. I’ll be lucky if they don’t eat me.”

Weyoun hugs his knees to his chest.

“You’re under my protection.” Odo sends his thoughts to the thick band around Weyoun’s wrist, making it momentarily glow the shimmering gold of his true form. “No one will even touch you.”

“At first, yes. But what happens when I manage to convince them that the Founders are not gods? That you’re not a god? Without the fear of your divine wrath, they’ll set upon me like wolves.”

Odo reaches out, laying a hand on Weyoun’s knee. “That will take years at the very least. By that time, we’ll have created a society built on mutual cooperation between the three races, and no one will think of either of us as traitors.”

Weyoun covers Odo’s hand with his own. “Your optimism disturbs me. You’ve lived too long amongst the Federation.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re going back.”

Weyoun intertwines their fingers, squeezing so tight that Odo feels tempted to dissolve his hand. 

“I don’t want this to end,” Weyoun says softly.

“It’s not,” Odo says. “We’ll be apart for a little while but once I’ve distributed the cure, we’ll pick up right where we left off.”

“It won’t be the same. You’ll want to spend more time with your people, and eventually I’ll want to spend more time with mine.”

“Then we’ll need to work even harder to bring our two peoples together. Once we break down the Dominion’s martial hierarchy, I’m confident Changeling, Vorta, and Jem’Hadar will live side by side.”

“I hope you realize how much work that will take,” Weyoun says.

“I do. And I know you can do it.”

Weyoun’s grip slackens as he turns to face Odo head on. “I was talking about you.”

“Me?” Odo asks.

“Well, I’m certainly not going to convince the Founders to surrender their power. I suppose the Vorta and Jem’Hadar could take that power by force, but I doubt anyone is in the mood for another war.”

“I’ve had enough war for at least the next century,” Odo says. “But ask me again after a month of lecturing the Great Link about freedom and equality.” He shakes his head. “My people can be so stubborn, so stuck in their ways, so…”

“Unchanging?” Weyoun offers.

“Ironically, yes.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it? The Founders designed each Vorta to serve a single purpose, and yet we’re more likely to change our ways than people who change into whatever they’d like.”

Odo snorts. “I think you’re overestimating yourselves.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If you think the Vorta are going to just give up their power over the Jem’Hadar out of some sense of honor, you’ve been listening to too many Klingon operas.”

“There may be some hesitance initially,” Weyoun hedges, “but Vorta will greet Jem’Hadar as their equals decades before the Founders even consider giving up their thrones.”

“You really think so?”

“I do.”

“Care to make it interesting?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, just a friendly wager.”

“I thought you didn’t like gambling.”

“I don’t,” Odo says, “but I do like being right, and the extra incentive wouldn’t hurt.”

“What are the terms?”

“Do you know that little house we talked about building on the homeworld one day? Someplace where we can be alone without the Great Link watching us? Well, if I’m right and the Founders change their ways before the Vorta, I get to decorate the house.”

“And if I’m right?” Weyoun asks.

“Same terms. You can turn the house into whatever madcap interior decorating experiment you want.”

“And if I won would I retain the rights to redecorate whenever and however I want?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Then we have a deal.”

“Good.”

Weyoun nods once and returns to his PADDs, silently going over the available intel regarding the Dominion’s remaining assets, demographics, and debts.

Odo turns back to the nav system, contented that Weyoun’s momentary spike of terror has passed. Odo remains quaking in his shapeshifted boots, but dealing with his own anxiety is much easier when it isn’t bound up with Weyoun’s. It’s slow going, but the more time he spends apart from himself, wrapped around Weyoun’s wrist like a bangle, the more Odo learns to differentiate between his feelings and Weyoun’s, who they are together, and who they are apart.

He desperately needs to know these things, because once he submerges himself in the Great Link, the part of himself that Weyoun carries will be his only lifeline, the only thing tying him to himself.

Nose buried in charts and figures, Weyoun rubs his wrist absentmindedly, a soothing gesture for both of them. He pauses his reading but doesn’t look up.

“Have you been keeping up with your Dominionese?” Weyoun asks.

“Of course,” Odo replies.

Consciously bypassing his universal translator, Weyoun asks the question again. Or at least Odo thinks he does. He only parses every other word.

Odo sighs. “No, I haven’t. Studying verb conjugations wasn’t exactly a priority when I was lying on my deathbed.”

“The fault is mine,” Weyoun concedes. “I should’ve continued our lessons instead of crying at your bedside.”

“I suppose it’s too late now.”

“Odo, you mustn’t give up so easily. Dominionese serves as the base for the common culture we hope to build. If you only speak Bajoran, I’m afraid…” He trails off. “I could continue teaching you, if you’d like.”

“I doubt either of us will have time.”

“I think we can put aside an hour each day to assure your inclusion in the society we’re trying to build.”

“Fine, but just an hour. I’m afraid if I spend any longer than that, the virus will reanimate and destroy whatever progress I’ve made.”

“Perfect,” Weyoun says. “Once the Great Link is cured, you’ll make your grand debut in Dominion society, speaking perfect Dominionese.”

“If you insist,” Odo grumbles, realizing but not acknowledging Weyoun’s scheme: if he comes up for air once in awhile, he’s less likely to drown. “But don’t think for a second that you can distract me with language lessons. I’m going to win that bet. I hope you like brushed chrome because that’s what you’ll be living with for the next three hundred years.”

“If I have a nightmare about that when you’re not there to comfort me,” Weyoun says, “I will never forgive you.”

“Shouldn’t my ‘blessing’ protect you from nightmares?”

“You’re never going to let that go.”

“I’ll let it go when you give me my blessing back,” Odo snipes.

“I can’t give it back. It’s not some tangible item that I—”

“Just say, ‘Odo, I return your blessing.’ Say it and I’ll never bring this up again. Consider the matter—”

“I can’t return your blessing. It was a gift. That would be—”

“It’s not a gift if it was given due to coercion.”

“I didn’t coerce you!” Weyoun protests.

“You made me think you were dying.”

“Only to save your life.”

“And I’m sure soliciting my blessing was a necessary part of the charade and not some bid on your part to—”

“It wasn’t even a proper blessing.”

“Then why not give it back?” Odo asks.

“Because!”

And on they go.


End file.
